


the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love

by akosmia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, Vampires, background poe/finn/rose, i mean it gets resolved in the fic but do 500 years of slow burn count?, mentions of blood but nothing graphic or explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 22:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30062649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akosmia/pseuds/akosmia
Summary: “How long have you felt like this?” she asks again.“I– You don’t–Rey–”“How long?”He gulps, his hands trembling by his side. Then, his voice goes softer, when he finally admits, “Ever since we met.”“Ben,” she gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. She sounds almost pained and he winces. “Why– Why didn’t you ever say anything? Five hundred years– you’ve been hiding this forfive hundred years–”“I didn’t want to ruin this,” he interrupts her, quietly. “Us. This friendship.”-- or: the love letters Ben has spent the last five hundred years writing to Rey are suddenly picked as part of an exhibit at the Coruscant Museum of Contemporary Art. Too bad, then, that he never actually confessed his love to Rey.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 90
Kudos: 324





	the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love

**Author's Note:**

> hi and welcome to this absolute mess of this fic!! i feel like writing about vampires is really becoming my coping mechanism for when things are rough, because apparently this is what my mind produces during quarantines: vampire content
> 
> i started this after seeing a tumblr post with this prompt float around my twitter timeline, and then it spiraled in what i can only define "part what we do in the shadows, part twilight vampire fic in which ben and rey are dumb and pine a lot", which, if you think about it, really says a lot about me. i won't even try to justify myself for the wordcount, we both know i have no explanation for it. also i think it goes without saying, but i never aimed at historical accuracy, especially in my language, so don't expect that and please forgive me for any mistake i might have made!!
> 
> i hope you'll enjoy this silly fic and thank you for sticking with me through my vampire phase again ❤

For all intents and purposes, Ben doesn’t hate modern technology, despite what Poe and Rose may think. 

Sure, he’s not _great_ at it – he still needs Poe’s help to turn on the DVD player and he hasn’t quite grasped the purpose of this thing Rose calls _Netflix_ and don’t get him started on music because at this point he isn’t sure how humans actually _listen_ to music in this century – but he isn’t _opposed_ to all of that. In fact, he is quite impressed by all these wonderful inventions and by the genius of the human mind. 

On the other hand, though, Ben remains convinced cellphones are quite unnecessary. 

Sure, they are _useful_ , he cannot deny it – with only a few _clicks_ (“Oh my God, no one says _clicks_ anymore,” Rose often reminds him) on his obscenely luminous screen he can get delivered to his door everything he desires, which is awfully convenient when you are a bored supernatural creature who has already gone through his own library at least twice in the last twenty years and you cannot step out of the apartment for the whole duration of the day. 

Still, no matter how useful cellphones turn out to be, he resents them for the way they have changed human – well, _human-ish_ – interaction, turning it into a stilted thing devoid of any meaning or any authenticity. 

There is just no feeling behind it, isn’t it? Texts messages – “You can call them just _texts_ ,” Poe tells him, which is a ridiculous situation as a whole, because being schooled by _Poe_ , who spent two decades drooling over his shirt during his hunts, of all people, sounds absurd, and yet – are so impersonal and short and frankly incomprehensible sometimes and there is no _meaning_ in it. 

Not like the meaning there was in letters. 

Oh, those were the days, weren’t they? He still remembers the nervous trembling of his fingers as his hand slanted across the page while he was writing long, heartfelt letters – the way he felt as if he was chasing down his thoughts, running after them as his hand moved above the page, always too slow for his own hectic mind. The memory of how he had to wait for the ink to dry to fold the letter in a neat envelope is still so fresh in his mind, as it is the smell of melted wax and the beauty of the simple act of pressing his sigil on it. 

He remembers even the rustling sound the letters made, as he wrapped a piece of red string around the envelopes and hid them in the drawer of his writing desk, along with all the hope his foolish, dead heart was capable of.

It felt different, he supposes. 

These days, when he checks the cellphone his friends convinced him to get a few years ago, he usually finds Poe sending him text messages that read “ _hey do u want to watch mamma mia”_ which is a ridiculous thing to do, when they both have superhuman hearing and they live in the same house so he could just _ask_ . Furthermore, if he absolutely _must_ write, then, Ben supposes, he could at least be bothered to use proper grammar and punctuation.

When he voices his concerns, though, his only two friends turn to stare at him in disbelief. 

“Oh my God,” Poe says. Sometimes Ben thinks he’ll be struck down just for the amount of times he calls to God when he shouldn’t, given his damned status and all, but it never seems to happen, which Ben, who’s spent the first century of his immortal life cowering away in fear and shame from God itself, finds ridiculously unfair. “Oh my God, you are a _boomer_.”

Ben frowns, confused. 

Though he’s trying to be more _social_ ever since Poe and Rose stumbled into his life, sometimes it is hard to keep up with younger vampires and he finds it extremely difficult to understand what they are talking about. 

He feels as if they were talking a language he hasn’t quite mastered, and though normally it would only take him a few years to become fluent, the idioms and the expressions change so quickly lately that by the time he thinks he has a firm grasp on it, he’s already two decades behind.

Kids these days. 

“I most definitely am not,” he replies, furrowing his brows. “I was born in 1486.”

Rose chuckles, granting him a peek of her sharp teeth and her easy smile at the same time. When she looks at him, fondness and humor swirl in the back of her warm eyes.

“You’re the vampire equivalent of a boomer,” she informs him, which makes even less sense.

“A _voomer_.”

She rolls her eyes. “Poe, _no_.”

They don’t really understand him, young as they are. Though Poe was turned sometimes around the 80s – and it shows in his movie preferences and in the way he dresses, even though he has ever since given up on the mullet, thank God or Satan or whoever is listening –, he regards every new piece of technology with the wonder of a kid on Christmas Day and Rose has been a vampire for barely a couple of years, so cellphones are just natural for her. 

Older vampires might understand – they have lived through these rapid changes and it is perfectly plausible they still can’t wrap their mind around them, just like he can’t. But then, there aren’t many of them around and he doesn’t know how to contact them. 

(“That’s what you get for scorning phones,” Poe likes to say, sporting a smug grin Ben would be very tempted to erase from his face, were not the simple act of it unbecoming for a vampire of his age and stance.) 

The only vampire he knows around his age is Rey, and though he has her number – she memorized it herself on his phone one night around 2010, as they roamed through the woods on the outskirts of Coruscant and talked about the old times –, he hasn’t heard from her in a while and it might be awkward, considering he’s spent the last 500 years or so _longing_ and _aching_ for her and his age has done nothing to render him less nervous when she’s involved. 

Of course, the thought of _texting_ her has crossed his mind multiple times, but every time he tries, he gives up because what can you even _text_ to the love of your undead life whom you’ve loved for centuries? It feels so reductive, to type his thoughts into that tiny box that appears every time he clicks on his conversation with Rey. Letters, those came easy – but text messages, they feel so _cold_ and _detached_. 

The complete opposite of how he feels towards Rey.

He resigns himself to stare down at his cellphone, unsure of where to go from there. 

That is, until Rey texts him. 

✨

_My dear Rey,_

_it is with a certain degree of surprise that I find myself thinking about time._

_It is, I must admit, not a concept I found myself inclined to reflect about in the last few decades I have spent roaming this world. Maybe it is my condition that prevents me from lingering on it – time feels such a pointless, naive notion, for one such as myself, a being completely devoid of any time._

_You would understand me, of course. You are trapped into this moment just as I am, two insects suspended in amber. There is no clock for us, no ticking hand reminding us of how precious every second is. I am so far removed from this collective hunger for more time that I cannot believe I had once taken part in it._

_Indeed, this eternal anguish has lost all meaning for me, years passing me by as if they were mere seconds, in a blink of an eye. I like to think of myself as a stranger in the land of time – I do not speak its language, nor do I understand his customs, this frantic chase that every human being seems to be occupied with, as if they could ever come to grasp it._

_Being as I am, I suppose, gives me a different perspective._

_And yet, ever more often I find myself thinking about it. No, I am not being quite truthful – I am not merely thinking about it, as if it were an intellectual pursuit I grant myself in times of boredom. I am bound by it, in a way I haven’t been in decades – as if time had wrapped its fiery, cruel noose around my neck, too. Me, who should be immune to the seduction of it, to this insane chase, this pointless battle against it!_

_I suspect, my dear, it is entirely your fault._

_It has been barely a handful of years ever since I last saw you. I remember walking with you along the shores of Varykino Lake, your long hair unbound for the first time ever since I met you so long ago._

_Is it scandalous, that I cannot stop myself from thinking about it?_

_About you?_

_Does it really matter, when our very existence is a scandal in the eyes of God?_

_I cannot give you an answer, and yet I linger on that memory more often than I would like to admit. You looked so beautiful in the moonlight, I am afraid I shall never see beauty in anything else but the lines of your face. My hand still burns, as if it were gripped in the fierce embrace of the sunlight, from the need to brush your hair away from your beautiful neck and press my lips there, against your throat, in the softest imitation of a kiss. You smiled at me that night and I have never been the same ever since._

_It is your smile, my dear Rey, that haunts me. You pollute my dreams, plague my nights, follow my every thought. Time used to mean nothing for me, and now I find myself counting the days, the months, the years ever since I last saw you. Decades used to pass me by so quickly without any awareness on my part, and now I feel every second tick so terribly slowly, as if time itself were mocking me. You have turned my heart into a mortal being, chasing down the hours until I see you again, and I would resent you, were not for the fact that I love you so terribly much it scares me._

_It is such a frightening thing, to love without mortal limits – it frightens me, how deeply I love you, how much I would give to whisper this love right against your skin, to press kisses to your mouth, to tear my petrified heart out of my chest just so you could take a look at the horror you have made of me._

_Alas, you shall never know any of it. These moments we share, scattered among the decades – they are far more precious to me than any fleeting possibility of happiness could be. I cannot bear to risk it, not even for the chance of seeing my love met with delight, instead of repulsion._

_I shall love you in secret, as we, dark things, are meant to live._

_Yours, Ben._ _  
__May, 1623_

✨

When his phone pings for the first time in probably a few years, he’s sitting in his living room, watching a movie with Rose and Poe and their human lover, Finn, who, at this point, has spent so much time in their apartment he’s sort of become Ben’s third roommate. 

Not that he minds. It’s pleasant, to have around someone who is not completely detached from the world and loves to explain it back to him. 

Once, Finn taught him what a _meme_ is. It was interesting. 

Sitting at home and watching a movie probably isn’t a glamorous past-time, for a group of vampires – but nightlife only interests him so much, and it has become insufferably dull ever since humans have swapped dinner parties for nights at the club, a couple of decades ago. He might be a vampire and therefore damned and all of it implies (and he’s absolutely not a _prude_ , despite what Poe might say. He has had sex. Vampire sex, even. Thank you very much), but he still can’t see the appeal of grinding against a complete stranger in the dark while surrounded by the most absurd kind of noise humans try to pass for music these days.

At least, in the old times there was a certain dignity to it. A grace, a subtlety, a _decorum_. You had to _lure_ your victims – seduce them with the softest touch, turn them mad with desire with a press of your lips against their skin, plant a kiss at the hollow of their neck and let them beg for more.

You didn’t just _grind_ on them, for goodness’s sake. 

There’s a part of him that still can’t get used to the idea – the world has changed too fast for him to truly make sense of it. He supposes it is what happens when you live too long. He still mourns the charming dinner parties he attended when he was in Naboo, or the hectic atmosphere of Chandrila’s salons, frantic with ideas and swarming with possibilities. He decidedly doesn’t wish to turn to a Coruscant’s club and, God forbid, _dance_. 

His existence is an insult enough to humans, he doesn’t need to subject them to his questionable dancing skills too.

Anyway. He’s happily sitting through the movie Finn has chosen for them, when his phone _pings_. The noise is so sudden and unexpected everyone turns into his direction, as if he had said something embarrassing.

He frowns, utterly confused by this puzzling behavior. “What?”

Both Poe and Rose stare at him in shock, while Finn alternates between looking at him and glancing at his lovers in what feels like a very convoluted game of court tennis he’s never wanted any part in. 

Ben is feeling a bit under examination. If he still had a beating heart, he’s sure it would be thundering against his ribcage in frantic beats. He’s never been good at social situations – not when he was human, fumbling over his words and turning a mortifying shade of pink under high society’s watchful gaze, and not even now that he’s half a millennium old. 

“Ben,” Poe starts, his eyebrows dangerously high in his forehead in an expression Ben has rarely seen in over thirty years of friendship. 

It feels extremely pointless to reply, since it’s clear that he’s heard him – and it couldn’t be any other way, since his ears can pick up even the noises passing cars make –, but still, Ben tilts his head and frowns. 

“Yes, Poe?” he asks, because Poe seems to expect him to.

“Your phone,” he replies. His eyebrows are reaching frankly alarming levels. “You– you got a _text_? It must be you because our phones are on silent.”

Oh. 

Oh, that’s – new, he supposes. He never gets text messages – he’s so used to communicating with Poe and Rose only (and Finn, sometimes, but that only happens in person) that he hasn’t even considered the slight ping might come from his phone. But it has – because apparently he’s the only one in the room who doesn’t keep his phone on silent, whatever that means. 

“Oh,” he breathes out. He fishes the phone from the pocket of his jeans and waves a hand around in a dismissive manner. “Oh, it will probably be just one of these texts that tell me I’m their millionth customer. It’s probably a mistake, but it’s always sweet when stores try to do something nice for their customers.”

He hears a muffled laughter from Finn and a whine from Rose. 

“Poe, I told you, you can’t give a phone to a 500 years old vampire,” she whispers, as if he couldn’t hear her like this. “He’s going to get _scammed_.”

“He’s not going to get scammed, he’s not stupid,” Poe replies, in an equally low tone. There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Not that _much_ at least.”

“It’s like trusting your _grandpa_ with a smartphone, do you really think–”

“I am, in fact, still here,” Ben interrupts them, glaring at them, though it has no effect on the two of them. 

Finn, at least, has the decency to pretend to be scared, but Ben already knows him well enough to see through the mask and he’s actually _amused_. What kind of rubbish vampire he is, if he can’t even scare a _human_? 

He groans, looking back at his phone. “Why do you even bother whispering, you must know I can hear– _oh_.”

“What?”

“Did you get scammed? I told Poe it would happen, he didn’t listen to me–”

He’s so surprised he doesn’t even remember to be annoyed. “No,” he says. His voice wavers a bit when he adds,“I did not get– It’s– _Rey_. She _texted_ me.”

A brief, stunned silence falls on the living room, interspersed only with the noises coming from the television, and for a second he’s left staring at his phone in wonder and shock. Though his heart has ceased its frantic beating a long, long time ago, he feels as if it were currently racing in his chest. 

> **rey (22.45):** _hey are u still in town?_ _there's an exhibit i thought u might like_

Trust Rey to call Coruscant – the world’s largest metropolis, brimming with life and lights and people – _town_. He supposes the world itself can appear to you as a town, when you’ve seen all of it countless times. Her lack of punctuation and grammar doesn’t even anger him as Poe’s would – instead, he feels something blossom in his chest, right where his dead heart resides.

Warmth.

He’d forgotten what that felt like. 

“Oh my God,” Poe breathes out. “Oh my God, _Rey_? What did she _write_?”

Ben clears his throat. He knows he doesn’t need to, but it feels automatic to do so, as if the lingering remains of his human instincts had been awoken by the mention of Rey’s name. She, he supposes, makes him feel human somehow. Eager and desperate, pining endlessly across the centuries – aching for a glance, a word, a touch from her. 

“She, uh–” He stares at the phone again, as if it could grant him some sort of wisdom. “She wants to know if I’m still in town.”

“Well, you have to tell her yes!” Rose intervenes. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

He’s about to start rambling – about Rey and his feelings for her, how they are too big to put into words and how texts can’t convey the depth of his immortal, absolute love for her, and maybe, _maybe_ how he doesn’t know how to text like a normal vampire, if such a thing exists, when–

“Wait,” Finn says. When Ben turns into his direction, he’s frowning, as if trying to make sense of the scene currently unfolding before his confused, human eyes. “Who’s Rey?”

Ben opens his mouth, but before he manages to say anything – to even remotely convey the importance of Rey in his undead life, the significance of her presence carrying him through the centuries, the luminosity in her smile that filled the vacancy left by the sunshine he could not see anymore –, Poe decides to act like himself.

He lets out a chuckle and then he has the audacity to _smirk_. “Just the girl Ben’s been pining after for what, five centuries?”

He cannot blush, but regardless of this, his face feels feverishly hot. 

“I’ve not been _pining_ after her,” he says, even though he _has_ been pining for five centuries. His voice sounds almost petulant. “She is my oldest friend.”

Rose snorts. 

“She’s also the girl you keep writing love letters to without ever sending them,” she informs him, as if he needed to be reminded of that. Of the countless letters hidden in the drawer of his desk, stubbornly written with ink and paper even in a world that revolves around emails and texts. Of the countless he’s lost over the centuries, as he moved from city to city, leaving a burning, devoted trail after him. “When will you ever tell her how you feel?”

_When hell freezes over_ , he wants to say, because at his age he thinks he’s allowed to be a bit dramatic. 

At this point, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tell her how he feels. The first few decades of their friendship seemed to be bursting with possibilities – everything was new and frightening and her hand on his felt like home in a world so obscure and terrifying. But by now, they have settled into a comforting form of friendship and he cannot bear to ruin this.

“I don’t think it would be wise,” he replies, then. He looks away from them, as if they could read his _hunger_ for Rey right off the lines of his face.“We’ve been friends for so long. If something was meant to happen, it would already have. It feels pointless to tell her that I love her _now_ I don’t want to ruin it.”

He’s ready for Rose and Poe’s protests – in the past few years, they’ve gone through this old, practiced dance countless times and now he has memorized all the steps, as if in a waltz. 

What he isn’t ready for is Finn’s earnest, genuine question.

“Why?”

He turns into his direction, surprised. 

Finn is – _nice_. He doesn’t retreat in fear when he sees him, doesn’t make fun of him when he makes it obvious he’s completely ignorant when it comes to internet culture, and is willing to sit down with him and explain him how things work for hours, even if Ben knows he’s not the greatest company the world has to offer. He brings him books he thinks he could like and always manages to coax him into watching movies with him. 

Surprising as it may sound, Ben actually _likes_ him. He’s a nice human and he’s a remarkably good sport when it comes to the whole vampire thing, which is more than he can ask for.

But – they’ve never had a heart-to-heart conversation. Ben doesn’t think he’s truly had one ever since he last saw Rey. Sure, he talks with Poe and Rose and they know part of his story, but – he rarely talks about his inner reasonings. In all the centuries he’s lived, he’s learned to be _alone_ , and though he isn’t anymore, it’s hard to get rid of that habit.

So, understandably, it takes him a moment to come up with an answer to Finn’s question.

“Well, we’ve been friends ever since the sixteenth century,” he says, pensive. If Finn is surprised by his age, he barely shows it. His eyes widen just a bit, but he doesn’t tell him he’s _old_ , which Ben is extremely grateful for. He supposes he must be used to some degree of strangeness, having two vampires as lovers. “She’s– Well. There are no words to explain how important she is to me, not really. If my heart were still alive, it would beat for her. Dead as it is, it’s still hers. I cannot bear to lose her.”

“Yeah, but–” He frowns, then leans in, his arms resting on his knees as if to better look at him in the dim light of the television screen. “What makes you say that you would _ruin_ this?”

Poe snorts. “He’s _dumb_.”

“He’s not _dumb_ ,” Rose insists, kindly, even if she’s spent the last few years making fun of him for the exact same reason. “He’s _shy_.”

“He’s an immortal _vampire_ who’s lived through five _centuries_ –”

“Guys, I love you, but I’m talking to Ben,” Finn interrupts them, resting a hand on each of their thighs with surprising ease. They both close their mouths almost instantly. “Ben, why do you think you’d ruin this?”

Ben gulps, quite uselessly. He’s never had to do this – explain himself to someone. Well, except for Rey, but she’s carved a place in his heart for herself and he doesn’t really have to explain himself with her, because she knows him better than he knows himself. When he’s with her, it feels as if he’s _knowing_ himself – as if she were explaining himself _back_ to him. A bright mirror, illuminating the darkest spots of his soul and showing them back to him with infinite tenderness. 

“I–” His voice wavers. He runs a hand through his hair, then presses his lips together and looks away. “We’ve known each other ever since 1521. She’s my oldest, dearest friend, and she is the only one who truly knows me. All of me. She was around during my darkest years and she held my hands through the horrors of it. In the shadows, she was with me. When I struggled because of my new nature, she was the one who kept me together. I’ve learned to accept this life because of her. I can’t bear to lose _this_ , if she weren’t to reciprocate my feelings. I love her more than I want her.”

There’s something in the back of Finn’s eyes that reminds Ben of _tenderness_. It’s been a while ever since he’s seen a human look at him like that and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks away, staring down at his hands.

“You’re afraid she doesn’t feel the same?” Finn asks him.

He nods, silently.

“That’s– very human of you."

He almost laughs. He’s not been human in more than 500 years – hell, he doesn’t even remember what it _means_ to be human. All those memories of his human life have long since crumbled down, leaving a vague impression of expensive fabrics, lucullan feasts, the phantom touch of his mother’s lips against his forehead. Wine and books and poetry, and then – only darkness and silence and _death_. 

But he supposes that’s what Rey does to him – reminds him of what it means to have a heart, although dead and frozen in his chest. To _want_ and _ache_ and _yearn_ , so desperately it feels as if these feelings were burning through him. 

She’s the closest thing he’s felt to _human_ in all the years he’s been alive. 

“But–” Finn continues. “Why would this have to ruin what you’ve built in the past centuries?” 

His eyes, when Ben looks his way, are still unbearably warm and though he hasn’t felt the sunshine on his skin in so long, it reminds him of it. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“If she doesn’t feel the same, well– it’s going to be awkward at first, but you’re two immortal beings.” He shrugs with remarkable calm, as if the existence of vampires didn’t upset him that much. “It will take you only a couple of decades to move from it and leave it in the past.”

It feels – so _easy_. He supposes it is, for humans – they aren’t burdened by decades of friendship and mutual support, by the intricate rituals and habits that only centuries of devotion and desperation and loneliness can forge.

“But–” he starts, his voice so low he wonders if Finn can hear him. “But what if she doesn’t feel the same?”

He feels almost pathetic, saying that out loud. He’s over 500 years old and he’s lived more lives than he can count, and yet here he is, sitting on his couch on a Friday night, wondering if the woman he loves will ever love him back, as if he were a poet or a teenager.

“What if she _does_?” Finn’s eyes are almost ardent, even in the dim light of the television screen. “Listen, man. Life is _short_. Being immortal probably gives you a different perspective, but–” He shrugs again. “As far as I’m concerned, I think not even forever is a long enough time to spend with the people you love. If she doesn’t feel the same, then at least you’ll be able to move on and stop torturing yourself for all eternity with the possibility. But if she _does_ – Man, think about all the days of happiness you have given up just because you were both too scared. So, do you want to spend eternity moping or are you going to take a chance at being happy?”

The words hang in the air for a moment as Ben absorbs them. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again even though he can’t remember how to articulate a simple thought.

He feels – _scattered_ , as if all his thoughts had been displaced all over the centuries he’s lived, all the centuries he’ll still _live_. He indulges in the possibility for a moment – the kisses he could have littered down Rey’s body under the stars of Varykino, the warmth of her arms around his body in Chandrila. Her hand wrapped around his, his fingers tracing the lines of her face. All the freckles he could have counted on her skin, those dimples on her cheeks he could have kissed. Things he could still have, perhaps, if he weren’t a coward.

Then, he lets out a deep breath – though he doesn’t need to – and admits, quietly, “You’re right. I should–” He frowns, looking down at his phone. “I should take a chance, I suppose.”

There’s a moment of silence in which the only sounds in the room are the ones coming from the television – and from passing cars, but Finn can’t probably hear them –, but then Finn’s lips curve into a warm, enthusiastic smile that makes Ben feel as if he were bathed in light.

He can see why Poe and Rose love him so much. 

“Good.” He leans in to pat his shoulder in a friendly manner, which makes Ben part his lips in surprise, because he’s a 500 years old vampire and a human has just dared to _pat_ him. “Now reply to that text.”

All the fight goes out of him in a huff of breath and he stares down at his phone again, suddenly self-conscious.

“Oh.” His cheeks heat up, even though he knows it’s merely an illusion. “Right.”

As he unlocks his phone, he can hear Poe murmur, “Finn, my darling. You should consider becoming a therapist for vampires.”

He decides not to comment on that. 

✨

_My dear Kira,_

_this is the name you were going by when we last saw each other, and I have whispered it to myself every time I lay down to sleep for quite some time now, as if it were a secret I was locking behind the safe drawer of my heart. If I could make a locket out of your name, filling it with the nerve-wracking emotions the mention of it evokes, I would, and I would wear it proudly underneath my shirts, resting right above my heart of stone as if teasing it, mocking it for the feelings it can still feel, despite its dreadful condition._

_There are times in which I murmur your name, too – your real name, the one you told me when we first met so many decades ago, when we were both young and alone and so deeply frightened in a world that seemed so terribly hostile. The name you told me while holding my hand, your skin so soft against mine despite it all. It is a privilege that I rarely grant myself, though, as if your real name were too precious a wine to waste it on un-memorable days._

_You would think me ridiculous, I am sure of it. You’d laugh – quietly, that sort of laughter that does not feel like a mockery, but like a gift I am being granted – and I would stare at you in awe, as if I were glimpsing the sunlight again._

_Oh, how I wish I could hear it again. My memories of you are, of course, untouched – no time nor decay could ever diminish the warmth of your laughter or the beauty of your dimples. I still remember the perfect pattern of freckles on your cheeks, the way your long hair brushed against your neck. The perfect pallor of your skin and the translucent blue of your veins still haunt my dreams, as if I could brush my fingers against your collarbones, if I only dared to reach out. I still hear your voice, silvery and gentle and yet stubborn and defiant, too, at times._

_And yet, I find no comfort in these memories, for I miss you too much._

_Words cannot quite express what it feels like, to be parted from you. You are, in some ways, always here – in the letters you sometimes send, in the memories of you that haunt my mind, in the portraits of you I have done, the work of an amateur artist whose muse he could never capture. But your absence is a sharp pain, as if someone had driven a knife right into my chest, piercing that cruel, wretched heart that would beat for you, if it only could._

_Missing you, I am forced to admit, resembles dying anew every time you leave._

_There are times in which I briefly entertain the possibility of following you, in your travel around the world. Your hand in mine, your smile against my shoulder, endless nights spent under the stars of some far-away city full of life and lights and brimming with ideas. The delighted curve of your mouth, parted in a surprised, awed gasp, as we’d walk through the halls of a museum. The warmth in the back of your eyes, upon seeing something remarkable and so deeply human. The awful amount of time I’d spend, trying to capture that look into my sketchbooks._

_That is a dream I indulge myself into, from time to time. But no matter how hard I desire it, I know it is impossible. I could never ask you to take me with you, and I am clearly not made for travel. You’d laugh and say I was made for metaphysical speculations and late-night reading in front of the fireplace. You might be right, I am afraid._

_It does not stop me from dreaming, though. Perhaps one day, I’ll follow you. Perhaps one day I’ll be courageous enough to ask you to come with you, and perhaps you’ll say yes and you’ll kiss my lips and take care of my heart._

_But for now, I shall patiently wait for your next visit._

_Until then,_

_Forever yours, B._ _  
__October 1857_

✨

Rey is waiting for him on the steps of the Coruscant Museum of Contemporary Art, when he arrives.

The first, timid rays of moonlight shine gently over her figure, bathing her in a silvery haze that paints her in muted tones. The only vibrant note is the red on her lips, so deep it almost reminds him of blood. 

He’s often wondered how she’d look in the sunlight – if the deep chestnut of her hair would burn in a flare of bright auburn in the red light of the sunset, if the freckles scattered on the bridge of her nose would turn golden in the radiance of the daylight, if her pale skin would look almost creamy, soft and inviting, under the sun. Questions that he will never be able to have an answer for, damned as they are to this life in the shadows.

But she’s a vision all the same, even in the silvery light of the moon, and her presence here makes this existence bearable, as if she had soothed and poked at his heart at the same time, reminding him what it means to be _alive_.

A thing he’s always admired about her, he supposes, is her ability to blend in. He’s always felt like a stranger in the years, as if the passing of time had turned him into a tourist visiting a foreign country of which he knows nothing, but Rey – she fits _right in_ , as if she’d passed with time itself, dancing along with it, changing and evolving instead of crystallizing herself in one single moment. 

She looks perfectly at ease on the steps of the museum – dark trousers, a brown turtleneck and a tweed jacket that makes her look distinguished and elegant, the kind of person you’d expect, standing outside of a museum. Her hair is shorter than he remembers, brushing against her shoulders in soft waves that he dies to sink his fingers into. There’s a certain grace about her figure – as if her long, delicate limbs were dancing to a far-away song even as she stands there, an ancient statue in all her mable glory.

And yet, despite the effort she makes to blend in and pass almost unnoticed, there’s something about her that makes her stand out. A beauty so sharp it cuts, something feral in the lines of her face, a dangerous glint in the back of her hazel eyes.

Something that marks her as terrifying and beautiful and terrible. 

Her eyes widen when she sees him, even if imperceptibly, and the composed grace of her figure melts away into a delighted expression, as if seeing him had changed her night for the better. There are dimples in her smile and he feels suddenly powerless when it comes to her.

Oh, can a dead heart still beat? He doesn’t know, but he almost feels it racing in his chest. 

“Ben, my dear,” she says, tilting her head back to better look at him. His name on her lips makes him _shiver_ , as if she’d whispered it against his spine, as soft as a caress. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Her lips curve into the soft, tender smile she always reserves for him and though Ben’s heart can’t stutter in his chest, he feels as if it had just tried to.

His lips twitch into a matching smile. 

“The pleasure is mine,” he replies. He doesn’t exactly feel _nervous_ – he’s known her too long for that – but there’s a certain thrill in reaching out and grasping her hand, bringing it to his lips and plating a devoted kiss on her knuckles. A thrill that never goes away, that makes his heart twist almost painfully. “You’re even more lovely than I remember.”

It is not a lie – though his memory is perfect, there’s nothing that could do justice to the maddening sort of beauty Rey radiates. He’s spent days thinking about her – the sharp lines of her face, the delicate curve of her lips, the smattering of freckles on her pale skin, the inviting slope of her neck he’d love to litter with kisses – and yet nothing could have ever prepared him for _her_ , for the way she shines, for the feelings he can sense stirring in his chest when she’s next to him.

As if she’d pressed a palm to his heart, forcing it to beat again.

Rey _snorts_. It’s an undignified sound and yet he can’t help but be entranced by her, this creature made of light and radiance, whose splendor never faltered, even as she was forced into darkness. 

“You, my dear friend, are a flatterer,” she replies, but there’s a tenderness there, in the curve of her lips. 

Is he imagining it, the longing in her gaze? The ache for something more? Is he merely seeing himself in those hazel eyes that always had him enraptured, or does she _want_ , just like he does? He can’t tell – maybe it is just him, his desperation and his love seeping out of him, as if they had cracked his chest open and had started to spill like blood on the steps of the museum.

“I am merely speaking the truth, you cannot fault me for that,” he says, before letting her hand go, even if it pains him to do so. He flexes his fingers, then sinks his nails into his palm, as if to prevent himself from reaching for her again. “You do look magnificent.”

Her smile softens, though there’s a glint in the back of her eyes that he can’t quite understand, despite the fact that he knows her so well. Could it be – _love_? Or have his foolish wishes bled into reality, twisting it to their whims? 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she replies, then. Her eyes flit down his body, as if to study his simple outfit – dark jeans, a dress shirt and an expensive-looking sweater Rose had forced him to wear –, and then she looks back at him, her lips curved into a devilish grin. “At least you look like you belong in this century this time.”

He can’t help the laughter that blooms in his chest, like a delicate flower she coaxes back to life with her presence, as if she were his personal goddess of Spring. He feels – _lighter_. As if all the centuries had been stripped off of him, as if he were young and hopeful again in her presence.

“Oh, Rey,” he breathes out, her name tasting like adoration on his lips. “How much I’ve missed you. Eternity is not even half as tolerable when you’re not here.”

There’s something wistful in the back of her gaze, in the sharp lines of her face – her eyes lose a bit of their brightness for a moment. She inhales, though she wouldn’t need to, and reaches out, her hand lingering in the space between them for a moment. 

Then, she seems to think better of it, and lets her hand drop, falling back to her side.

His heart aches.

“I’ve missed you too,” she murmurs, so quietly, as if she were afraid of admitting such weakness. “I– I’ve been thinking of you every second I was away. I know you’d wish I’d linger longer in one place, maybe build a life. But I– I don’t want this second life to turn out like the first. I don’t want to– to–” 

Her voice falters.

It feels instinctive, to reach out for her. His hand brushes against her arm, gently, his fingers dancing up and down the sleeve of her jacket as if to soothe her, as if he could erase the scars her human life has left on her soul, so long ago. 

It is a cruel thing, the fact that he cannot remember anything of what came before his death, while Rey’s memories are as vivid as if she’d just lived through them. He wishes he could grant her a moment of rest, a respite from those horrors. He knows – of course he knows. He’d held her in his arms when she told him about Jakku – the desolation of it, the unforgiving light and the terrible loneliness in her heart. Fighting for her life everyday, her throat parched, her skin cracked open by the sun, her stomach empty and aching. Waiting for her parents to come back, day after day, only for her to die just like she’d lived – alone and scared and forgotten.

She’d vowed she would never let that happen again.

Ben could never fault her for it.

“You don’t want to live and die in the same backwater city without ever getting out. I know.” Before he loses the courage, he comes to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against her jawline. “You don’t need to give me an explanation. You owe me nothing, Rey. This is your life. Your eternity. I am happy to share even a bit of it.”

She leans in, her cheek resting against his palm. Her skin is warm and soft to the touch and he feels his heart in his throat, as impossible as it sounds. In all the centuries they’ve known each other, he never felt the intimate tenderness, the easy, unquestioned devotion he feels right now. Rey leans into his touch and he feels at home, as if they both had crossed the whole world and lived half a millennium to stand there, two fools on the steps of a museum. 

“Ben, I’ve been thinking–” Her eyes linger on his face for a moment, wide and searching, but whatever she finds there, she doesn’t share it. She shakes her head and breaks from his touch, letting his hand fall away. “Never mind. It was something of no importance.” A smile appears on her lips. “Shall we go?”

He tries his best to hide his disappointment and the longing roaring in his chest, and instead follows her gaze. 

“The Coruscant Museum?” he asks, frowning. “I thought it was closed at night.”

She motions for him to extend his arm, which he does without uttering a protest. “It usually is, but it’s open for a special exhibit this week.”

The walk through the museum with her hand resting on his arm. It’s not unusual – they’ve blazed through Chandrila’s saloons, walked along the shore of Varykino Lake, danced through the streets of Canto Bight like this, arm in arm, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin and tracing maddening patterns. This kind of proximity, he can take it, even though it seems to awaken a yearning monster inside his chest that _wants_ and _begs_ so desperately. 

He’d never known, that love could feel as if he’d been burned by the sunlight.

He pays their entry fee and they’re ushered into a special section of the museum. The new exhibition is called _Love Through The Ages_ and it’s exactly the kind of exhibition he’d love, romantic and desperate as he is. 

It makes his chest feel awfully tight, the fact that Rey knows him so well. 

The halls are dark, with the exception of a few low lights that guide them through the corridors and it would be almost atmospheric, were it not for his sharp eyes and his ability to see even in darkness. Even like this, he enjoys pretending he doesn’t – Rey’s fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater, his other hand resting on hers as if he could lose her in the darkness, the closeness of her body in the dim light. 

_Love Through The Ages_ is, as obvious as it sounds, an exhibit about _love_. As they slowly walk through the halls, stopping at every turn to absorb everything, he recognizes paintings he’s seen over the centuries, sculptures he’s admired, a collection of love letters from authors and poets he’s met in the past. When you live half of a millennium, there’s not much you haven’t seen before, and yet it doesn’t annoy him. 

Instead, he loves it. He loves every bit of it, with all the strength of his foolish heart. He can’t cry – his tears have dried the day he died, so long ago – and yet he feels his eyes burn as they stand in front of his favorite painting, a scene of two lovers in bed, sleeping soundly in each other’s arms. Love spills from the painting right into his soul, like warmth piercing his chest.

“Oh, Rey. I adore it,” he murmurs, awed. His voice is almost lost in the darkness, so low she’s probably the only one who can hear him. The only one he cares about, in any case. “You know me so well. I don’t know what to say. You’ve given me an incredible gift.”

She lets out a soft laughter, one that feels like _spring_. 

“I knew you’d like it,” she replies, her voice just as low. The words are like a caress in the shadows, a kiss pressed to the soft spot beneath his ear. “You’ve always been a romantic, my dear.”

He laughs too. “I’m afraid you are right.”

Another laughter, then she intertwines their fingers together, squeezing them gently. His dead heart aches, so beautifully he can’t even call it _pain_. 

“Please, do not feel ashamed of it,” she whispers, so _softly_. As if she were whispering sweet nothings right into his ear, against his skin, on his mouth. “This is one of the things I love the most about you.”

All the words suddenly die on his lips. 

Rey doesn’t expect him to reply – instead, she gently guides him into a new hall, their fingers still intertwined as if it pained her to let him go. 

This section is even more secluded and it reminds him of his old study in his Naboo villa – a writing desk, books everywhere, warm-toned curtains draped elegantly over a windowsill. There’s a hint of light that bathes Rey in warmth, gifting her hair the auburn shine he’s so entranced by. 

_Forgotten Lovers_ , this section is called, and the museum label informs him this is a collection of letters found over the years by the curators of the exhibition. It is, in their words, what sparked this whole exhibit – love letters written by people who weren’t famous artists or poets, but they just loved each other, so deeply their words resound even now. The letters cover centuries of human history, which sparks a hint of humor in his chest because he’s probably been alive for all of them.

At first, he doesn’t notice it. 

They walk through the room, stopping to read the letters in full display, Rey’s hand still wrapped around his, and he just basks into it. It’s hard to register the words, when she’s so close to him.

Then, he starts to pay attention.

_It is your smile, my dear Rey, that haunts me. You pollute my dreams, plague my nights, follow my every thought._

_You’d laugh – quietly, that sort of laughter that does not feel like a mockery, but like a gift I am being granted – and I would stare at you in awe, as if I were glimpsing the sunlight again._

He feels his dead heart still in his chest, dread seeping into his bones like poison, climbing up his spine in tendrils of horror, and he stops in his tracks, as if petrified. 

Rey notices too. At first, she frowns, leaning in as if to read better – as if her eyes could ever deceive her –, then she inhales, sharply, and goes rigid next to him. 

“Ben–” she starts, her voice trembling slightly. “Ben, what the hell–”

He lets out a shuddering breath, though he doesn’t need to, and does the only thing he can do at a moment like this.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he breathes out.

✨

_My dear,_

_Spring seems to have come again, even this year. Winter seemed so intent on lasting eternally, though we both know a season has nothing on real eternity. And yet, it had seemed to me winter had made a home out of the countryside we’d explored together a few years back, snow crunching underneath my feet as I walked around on my own._

_This countryside – which had appeared to me welcoming and inviting in your presence – seemed empty to my eyes. The bare trees appeared so stark against the night sky, the moonlight making them look like pilgrims, begging their God for a semblance of grace. Things are changing, though. Now, the first few leaves are bursting through the snow, flowers slowly blooming, their scent lingering in the air._

_I always admire the seasons in their incessant turn, the way nothing can stop them from settling in, bringing with them their variety of colors of which I have been robbed and deprived a long time ago, but that I’ll always remember fondly. I know it is spring because the night air is slowly getting warmer, though it makes no difference for my skin. The days are slowly getting longer, too, confining me to the safety of my house, where the unforgiving sunshine cannot find me. I can smell the heady scent of flowers, I can hear the elated screams of joy of the children in the nearby town, now that it is safe for them to play outside._

_But I cannot see it – I cannot feel the sunshine on my face, I cannot see all the wonderful colors of the spring._

_Nevertheless, I like to think that I would never feel their absence if only you were here. Your presence is its own kind of spring – there’s the soft light of the sunshine in your smile, the color of the fresh leaves in your eyes, the warmth of the day in the touch of your hand. I miss you more than I miss the beauty of the first blossoms and I’d trade all the sunlight in the world for the chance of seeing you again._

_Winter always seems to linger, when you’re not around, as if it thrived off your absence. My heart feels like a wasteland, barren and empty as the fields around my home, and it would take just a smile from you to coax it into full bloom, bringing it back to life the way only the touch of your hand can._

_But, alas, you are far away – lost in a foreign city I have never stepped foot into, watching the world with glittering eyes and a hunger about you that always leaves me breathless. There’s nothing about you that I love more than that hunger – as if you were starved for beauty and art and radiance, as if you could never be sated of it. I shall love you for this even if it brings you far away from me, because it is what makes you, you. My darling Rey, my beautiful, terrifying love._

_I shall wait for your return. I will greet you with a smile and a gentle embrace and I will ask you to tell me all about the beauty you’ve seen ever since we last parted ways. I will listen to you, glad to have a chance to hear your melodious voice again, and I will treasure this memory too, as I treasure every other memory of you, when you will inevitably leave again, taking my heart with you._

_Waiting to hear from you again,_

_Yours, B._ _  
__April, 1920_

✨

There are _so many letters_.

He knew, of course – he’d written them, over the years and the centuries, sitting at his desk in the dark, with only the trembling light of a candle and his own foolish heart to keep him company. Letters written for half a millennium – neatly folded, a red thread around them so he could keep them together, safely guarded in the drawer of his writing desk as if he’d put that ridiculous heart of his there, too.

Of course he knew.

But to see them like that – that is something he cannot believe. It feels as if his own mind couldn’t quite grasp such an absurd thought and he’s surprised to realize how many of them there are, scattered around this room – how much he’s written, how much of his heart he’s poured onto these pages into his elegant handwriting, as if he’d packed all his feelings into a neat envelope and closed it with his wax sigil so they could not spill out. 

All that pain and longing and ache and desperate love – all of that, in full display for everyone to see now.

For Rey to see it.

A dead heart cannot beat nor race nor halt. A dead heart cannot feel nor ache nor tremble. And yet, all of this doesn’t seem to discourage his own heart that, cold as it is, is currently burning a hole through his chest as if it wanted to climb out of his ribcage to present itself at Rey’s feet, begging for her forgiveness or her love.

“Ben,” she whispers again, her voice so low he wonders if even _he_ would have been able to hear her, if his senses weren’t so attuned to her in this precious moment. “Ben, did you– Did you _write_ all of these?”

There’s no use in denying it – how could he, when the most intimate details of their immortal lives have been so crudely exposed to unknowing human eyes? And yet, though he knows he can’t, he’s almost tempted to do it – as though overwhelmed by a sudden, foolish impulse, born out of his terrible desire to avoid the dreadful moment that will surely follow. 

He doesn’t, though. There’s no point in it and living half a millennium, he supposes, makes you brave enough to face your own heartbreak, at some point.

So he nods, quietly. “Yes.” His voice is hesitant and fearful and he has to clear his throat, which is such a _human_ thing to do he feels almost ridiculous. “Yes, I did. I thought– I thought these letters had been lost when I moved to Coruscant.”

Rey doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is fixed on the letters in front of her, as if she could make sense of it all this way. Then, she lets out a shuddering breath and lets her hand fall away from his. 

The pain is sharp and immediate. He feels as if she’d sunk her teeth right into his heart and sucked it dry, leaving his lifeless body there. For the first time in his long, excruciating existence he feels truly _dead_. 

She doesn't notice. Her hand comes to brush against the glass, as if to trace the familiar shape of the words he’d written ages ago. The paper is frayed at the edges and a bit yellow with time, but the ink is perfectly preserved and it is so easy to see himself in it, curved at his desk, pouring his heart out, knowing he’d never get a reply. 

“How long?” she asks, then, her voice trembling.

He blinks at her, her sharp profile bathed in a warm light. “What?”

She finally turns into his direction and it’s _devastating_ , the weight of her hazel eyes on him. It feels as if five centuries of love and longing and desperation were finally crashing down on him, as if they were a wave he can’t do anything else but let himself drown in. Her gaze pins him to this moment, this pain, and burns a hole through his chest, right to his heart.

It reminds him of the desperate few minutes before his death – when his heart had sped up, fluttering like a frightened bird in his ribcage, burning through him until it was hard to breathe and then it had stopped, forever.

A dull, frantic noise piercing his ears, and then eternal silence. 

“How long have you felt like this?” she asks again. 

“I– You don’t– _Rey_ –” 

“ _How long_?”

He gulps, his hands trembling by his side. Then, his voice goes softer, when he finally admits, “Ever since we met.”

Rey widens her eyes and parts her lips, as if surprised. As if he’d stabbed her, as if he’d put a stake through her heart and twisted it, almost cruelly.

“ _Ben_ ,” she gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. She sounds almost _pained_ and he winces. “Why– Why didn’t you ever say anything? Five hundred years– you’ve been hiding this for _five hundred years_ –”

“I didn’t want to ruin this,” he interrupts her, quietly. “Us. This friendship.”

“So you decided to–” She lets out a stunned sound, somewhere behind a groan and a chuckle. “–to _hide_ it from me for five hundred years? _Five hundred years_ –” she keeps repeating, as if she could make sense of it like this. “Ben, how did you even manage to–”

He reaches out, but then lets his hand fall to his side again because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch her anymore. If he can brush his fingers against her face, thread them through her hair, feel the warmth of her skin against his. 

“I know. I– _Rey_ ,” he murmurs, her name spilling from his lips like a prayer, a desperate thing made of love and ache and longing. As if he wanted to beg her not to disappear, not to let him _go_. “You’re my oldest friend. My dearest companion. When we first met, you– you made it bearable, this awful existence. You were as frightened and young as I was, but you shone so _brightly_. You reminded me what it meant to be alive, even if my heart couldn’t beat anymore.”

Rey doesn’t need to breathe, and yet he can hear her breath hitch on her lips, a quiet sound that echoes in the empty room around them. 

It awakens some sort of tenderness in him, this display of humanity on her part. 

“Before you, I’d hated it, this condition. This existence I was banished to. But then you stepped into my life and you made it worth it. There was still beauty in the world, and I could see it through your eyes, hear it through your ears, touch it through your hands. I started to love the world again, because _you_ loved it. And how could I not love you, too, this creature that brought in my life the sunshine I thought I had lost forever?” 

She doesn’t say anything, staring at him with wide eyes. His lips curve into a quiet, resigned sort of smile and he runs his hand through his hair, as if to prevent himself from reaching for her again. 

“I never expected for you to love me back. The pilgrim doesn’t expect the goddess to deem him worthy,” he murmurs, quietly. “I never told you because I could not bear to lose you to this. I’d rather be your friend, no matter how much it hurts, than live without you by my side. Eternity is a long time to spend missing you, my love.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Rey breathes out again, softly. 

Next to him, bathed in the golden light of the lamps, she looks – almost _fragile_. He knows it’s merely an illusion – he’s seen her hunt, he knows the strength that she wields with terrifying ease. He’s dreamed about her hands, pressing quickly-fading bruises into his shoulders. 

And yet, right now, she looks – small. Defenseless. _Human_.

Her eyes are wide and open – emotions swirling in the back of that familiar hazel gaze, so quickly he can barely keep up. Her hands are trembling by her side, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to _reach out_ for him, too.

“But those letters–” she starts, tentatively. 

He almost laughs at that. “I never meant for you to read them,” he murmurs, sparing them barely a glance. “I’ve been alone for _so long_ , Rey. I didn’t have anyone to confide in except for you and you– I could not tell _you_ anything, of course. I could not lose you. So I wrote. I wrote letter after letter and hid them in the drawer of my desk. I must have lost them when I moved. I don’t know how they ended up here. Believe me, I never meant for you to find out, let alone like this.”

Her gaze falls back on the letters again, pensive and quiet for a moment. Her hands tremble again as she twists them, and he wants nothing more than to lace their fingers together and brush his palm against hers in a comforting touch. Press a soft, tender kiss to her temple. Remind her she’s not alone.

His hands _burn_ , but he stays put.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment when she asks him, “When did you stop?”

“Stop?” He frowns, as if to make sense of her words. “I don’t understand.”

“The letters,” she explains, which does nothing to abate the confusion in his mind. She must sense it, because she sighs and shakes her head, familiar and devastating, before adding, “Ben. The letters stop around the 50s. When did you– When did you stop feeling like this?”

_Oh._

The moment is a revelation to him – that’s when the knowledge settles in, like a knife lodged between his ribs, as sharp as her teeth. Surprise floods his chest, blooming like a bruise, spilling like blood.

Rey thinks he’s _stopped_ feeling like this. 

That he doesn’t love her anymore, that he doesn’t worship her with all he’s got, damned as he is. That he doesn’t think the only semblance of heaven he’ll ever get is the sight of her luminous smile, the touch of her gentle hand, the absolute peace he feels when she tilts her head and _looks_ at him, quieting down all other thoughts.

He considers lying for a second. He could tell her he’s stopped – that he doesn’t love her, that he’d fallen out of love somewhere around the half of last century. That he’d grown tired of longing for someone who could never love him back. It could save them some pain, it could save their friendship.

But then, a memory plays in his head. Finn’s voice, gentle and yet insisting, _I think not even forever is a long enough time to spend with the people you love. Do you want to spend eternity moping or are you going to take a chance at being happy?_

What would be the point of losing his courage _now_? He wouldn’t ever know for sure. And Rey – she deserves better than a _lie_. She deserves to know she’s _loved_.

“Rey,” he breathes out, her name the only prayer he remembers. He trembles, fear climbing up his spine in icy tendrils – but his love for her burns brighter, a fire that not even five hundred years of desperation could put out. “Rey. The letters did not stop, they just haven’t been found because they’re safe at my apartment. I’ve– I’ve never stopped. I don’t think I could. I don’t know how. I love you and I will love you for the rest of my eternity, however long it might be.”

It is an endearing thing, to see realization spread on Rey’s face. At first, she frowns and tilts her head, as if confused. Her eyes linger on his face as if she could divine the meaning of his words in the pattern of moles on his skin, but then– 

– something in her comes _undone._

“ _Ben_ ,” she breathes out, astonished and reverent at the same time and she’s – she’s a _mess_. 

He’s never seen her so _stricken_ before. Her hands tremble again, her eyes widen, her lips part, her breath, though unnecessary, comes in a short pants, and then, just as he’s about to apologize and walk away from her, spare her the sight of this lovesick fool who’s dared to _adore_ her–

– she throws herself at him, grabs his face into her hands and pulls him down in a bruising kiss.

All the words die on his lips and it takes him a moment to recover, as if his mind could not quite keep up with the events unfolding in front of him, _to_ him.

He’s spent his whole eternity dreaming about it – kissing Rey, his lips gently pressed against hers, his fingers threading through her hair and tracing, almost worshipfully, the lines of her face, his tongue brushing against her sharp teeth. He’s dreamed about the feeling of her body pressed against his, of her arms around his shoulders, of her mouth slowly parting to deepen the kiss. 

In his dreams, kissing Rey was something _holy_ – something divine and sacred, a way to show her his devotion, his adoration, his reverence. An offering to his eternal goddess. 

The reality is quite different. 

Rey kisses him as if she were _starved_ for him, as if she’d been hungry for centuries. She kisses him as if she were desperate for his blood, as if she wanted to sink her teeth into his neck and mark him as hers and he wants nothing more than rip his dead heart out of his ribcage and offer it to her, as twisted and wretched as it is, because he loves her to the point of madness and this kiss is _burning_ him from the inside, turning him to ashes, and he’d gladly _die_ for her.

Her hands wind into his hair, tugging at the strands almost forcefully to pull him down, to press his body against hers as if she wanted to crash her frozen heart into his and he cannot do anything but _obey,_ kissing her back with the same desperation, flushing their bodies together with the same urgent need. Her kiss is hungry, demanding and magnificent – she coaxes his lips open with the same fierce defiance she’s lived her eternity with, with no apology and no excuse and her tongue licks into his mouth with a feverish sort of need, brushing against his sharp fangs and tearing a gasp out of him. He can’t do anything else but bring his arms around her, one hand cradling her neck, the other resting at the base of her spine, and kiss her back, with everything he has.

It feels as if he were dying, but coming alive again at the same time. As if he were standing under the unforgiving light of the day, burning his heart away as she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him for what it feels like five centuries of desperation and devotion condensed into a single instant of pure bliss.

At some point, the kiss turns less frantic – as if the fire had burned out of her, as if she just wanted to _feel_ him now. She gasps against his mouth and it almost surprises him to realize she’s _sobbing_. 

He brings a hand to her face, then. His thumb strokes her cheekbone, gently, and the kiss becomes slow and indolent and gentle, tender in a way he’s never experienced before. 

He feels – _loved_.

They don’t need air, but at some point Rey breaks away from him. Her lipstick is smeared across her lips and he thinks half of it is currently resting on his mouth, and yet the only thing he cares about is _her,_ standing in front of him with those bright eyes of hers he’s fallen in love so long ago.

He wants to kiss her again, until eternity falls away into a single moment.

“I–” he starts, dumbfounded. All the words he's ever known are nowhere to be found now, and the only thing he knows is the taste of Rey's lips, the way it feels to have her body pressed against his, the scorching touch of her hand. He gulps. “Oh. Wow.”

The lipstick smeared on her lips looks like blood and when she grants him a soft, hesitant smile, she's _beautiful_ and _terrifying_ , and now he knows why people worship their gods. Awe fills his chest, bursting in his ribcage in a radiant flare. 

“I know,” Rey murmurs, then, softly. 

Hesitantly, she reaches out and comes to cradle his face into her hand, her palm pressed against his skin, her thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. Her touch feels like _sunshine_ – like a burning sensation that spreads from her fingers and slowly travels down his whole body and he feels himself _shiver_. 

Five hundred years of existence and shaking like a leaf in front of her.

“Sorry about that,” she adds, somewhat apologetic. Her eyes are so terribly soft up close, so full of _tenderness_.

He lets out a stunned laugh. “Believe me, I’m not sorry at all.”

She laughs too, nervously. In all the centuries they’ve been friends, he’s never seen her so _anxious_. This time, he doesn’t fight the instinct to wrap his arms around her – instead, he pulls her closer, one hand resting at the base of her spine as if to comfort her.

“I just– _Ben_ – ” she stutters. His name on her lips tastes like _adoration_ . Her eyes shine brighter than any light he’s ever seen and he forgets he’s ever missed the sunshine when she looks at him like that. “All those years– You’ve _loved_ me all those years?”

He nods, quietly. 

“I did. I do.” His lips curve into a soft smile and he leans into her open palm, her skin so soft and delicate against his. Then, he covers her hand with his, intertwines their fingers and brings their joined hands to his chest, right where his heart rests. “I cannot offer you a beating heart, but, nevertheless, it’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Her fingers linger against his heart, digging into the fabric of his sweater. 

“You’ve always been so unnecessarily _poetic_ ,” she tells him, teasingly, and then, she smiles at him, and God, it’s _bright_ and _dimpled_ and _perfect_ and he’d do anything for that smile. “Well, if you put it that way, my heart is yours too, Ben.”

He has to blink at her again to make sure he’s not dreaming her. “ _What_?”

Rey laughs and her laughter explodes on her face, like summer does after a tremulous, uncertain spring, bringing all the heat and the vibrant colors of the season. She’s – _glorious_ , all freckles and dimples and bright eyes and she looks at him as if she loved him, and the most surprising part is that– 

She _does_.

_Oh._

She’s always looked at him like that, and it took him five hundred years to realize it’s been _love_ all this time. 

That she loved him every time she pressed a goodbye into his shoulders in the first hours of the night, that she loved him every time she ran up to him and put her arms around him upon seeing him again, that she loved him every time she took his hand and ventured with him into the night. She loved him as they counted the stars in Naboo, and she loved him as they waltzed in Canto Bight, and she loved him every time they parted ways and fell back together century after century.

“Oh,” he breathes out. Then, he laughs too – a nervous, incredulous laugh, that blooms on his lips almost without him noticing. “We’ve been so foolish, haven’t we?”

Rey nods, her hand brushing against his heart again, as if she wanted to caress it. 

“The greatest fools this world has to offer,” she agrees, a hint of both humor and regret in her voice. Her smile turns softer, almost tentative when she adds, “I– Ben, I’ve loved you ever since we met, but I was afraid you would never love me back. We were so different and you– you’re so smart, you’ve always have been and I was _nothing_ –”

“Rey.” He takes her face into his hands, gently, as if he could break her. He _looks_ at her, this radiant creature that he loves so dearly, and _dies_ to tell her how incredible she is, what a mess she’s made of him by simply being herself. “Rey, my love. You are _everything_. You’re brilliant and magnificent and wonderful, and you were it five hundred years ago, too. I have loved you from the very first moment.”

“But you–” she starts again, then gulps, trembling in his embrace. “You– you wanted a home and your books and a fireplace and your poetry and I– I wanted to see the world, but you never offered to come with me and I thought you didn’t want to, you didn’t want _me_ –”

“I never thought you would want _me_.” He shakes his head, incredulous. “I was so terrified you’d never feel the same. I’ve wanted to ask you for so long but I didn’t think you’d want me–”

“And I’ve wanted to come home to you for so long but I didn’t think you’d want _me_ –”

He finds himself laughing again, his chest heavy with the weight of his own foolishness, then he bends down to rest his forehead against hers. Up close, her eyes are even brighter, a summer in full bloom, in the midst of a freezing winter. He loves her so much he doesn’t think another five hundred years would be even enough to convey all of that.

Instead, he traces the pattern of her freckles with his fingertips, gently, softly. As if she were precious, breakable – as if she could turn out to be a dream, after all.

But she doesn’t. 

“The greatest fools this world has to offer,” he repeats, eliciting a chuckle from her. “I cannot believe we wasted five hundred years because we were too scared of not being loved back. It seems such a human foolishness, I cannot believe we fell right into it.”

She loops her arms around his neck and steps even closer, her body warm and soft against his. He still cannot believe he’s allowed to hold her in his arms, but he wastes no time in bringing his arms around her again, wrapping her into his embrace. 

“Well,” she starts, quietly. Her lips twitch into a smile, bright and hopeful. “Good thing we have the whole eternity to make up for all the time we’ve lost.” 

He leans in to kiss her again – this time is softer, gentler, _loving_. He kisses her as if to worship her, and this kiss, in an empty hall of a museum as they are surrounded by the letters he’s written her over the centuries, is something _holy_. Rey sighs and hums into his mouth and her fingers thread to his hair, playing with his curls.

It feels as if he’d waited his whole life for this moment. As if he’d died, so long ago, only for the chance of being here now.

“I want to see the world with you,” he murmurs against her mouth, then, ardent and devoted. “I convinced myself for a long time that I didn’t want to, but I do. I want to see your favorite cities, walk with you through your favorite museums. I want to sit in your favorite spots and draw you there. I’m afraid my skills haven’t improved much, but I want to try.”

She chuckles again and she sounds almost giddy, as if drunk on all the possibilities in front of them, now that they’ve opened their eyes.

“And I want to come home to you,” she whispers, her voice so quiet, as if she were afraid of admitting it. A vulnerability, a crumbling of walls. She’s letting him _in_. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and I– I think I’m ready to build a life. With you. I want to be surrounded by our books and art and sit in front of the fireplace with you.”

His dead heart _sings_ . It feels almost _alive_.

“We could travel,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her mouth, his fangs scraping against her bottom lip. “And then we could come home.”

“I’d like that.” She tugs at his hair and he goes willingly, raising his head to look at her. “Will you still write me letters? Even if I can read them now?”

There’s something vulnerable about her, as she stands in the circle of his arms. He knows it’s not easy for her to let go of her fears, of her defenses – and yet she’s doing it, standing in front of him with her bright eyes and hesitant smile and all her love, so easy to see now that he’s learned how to recognize it. Brave and radiant and wonderful.

His eternal, magnificent love.

He bends down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, and it feels as if he were sealing his fate.

“Yes,” he murmurs, against her skin. “I will write you all the letters you deserve. I will never stop worshipping you.”

She laughs, a silvery sound that tugs his lips into a smile. “Always so awfully poetic,” she teases him, but then she kisses him and he forgets everything else.

He has the whole eternity to tease her back, after all.

✨

_My dear Rey,_

_eternity is a curious thing. I have spent my whole existence dreading the endless number of days in front of me, as if looking at a path I had never wished to take, suddenly laid down at my feet in all its eternal bore, and now, without any warning, eternity seems to be too short a time to spend it with you._

_Days fly by, bright in their breathtaking happiness, and I wish nothing more than hold onto them, as if they could disappear, vanishing into thin air, slipping through my fingers like sand. Part of me – the most human part of me, the one that comes alive when you, my dear, are around – feels as if I were running out of time, out of days – as if this indescribable joy had to come to an end, somehow. And yet, it doesn’t._

_It’s still hard to make sense of it._

_You are sitting next to me, on our couch. The firelight paints soft shadows on your face, granting your hair a faint auburn shine that I’ve tried to capture in so many portraits, without ever doing you justice. Your head is bent on a book, your body resting against mine as if burrowing into my warmth. From time to time, your hand reaches for mine and you intertwine our fingers, your thumb brushing against the back of my hand, stroking my knuckles._

_Sometimes, you bring our joined hands to your lips and press a kiss to my fingers. As if to bring me back to you, when I wander too far into my own head. As if to remind me that this is real, that you do love me._

_It is such a wild notion, you will forgive me if I still have trouble believing it._

_I have spent this whole eternity longing for you – ever since you appeared into my life, bright as the sunshine I had been robbed off and tender as the spring I could not see any beauty in anymore. Sometimes, I entertain myself with the thought of being destined to love you, as if my whole soul, if I still have one, had been fabricated among the stars for the sole purpose of loving you, tangling with yours._

_But if I have learned one thing from my five hundred years of existence, is that there is no fate, only what we do with the time and the life we’ve got._

_Loving you, I believe, is not my fate, but my choice – and I will keep making this same choice for the rest of our eternity, if you allow me._

_In a moment, I will fold this letter and hide it in the pocket of my jeans. I will bend down to press a kiss to your forehead and the way you’ll look at me, with the soft smile you seem to reserve for me only, will have me believe for a moment that my heart is beating again in my chest. I will tell you just that and you will tease me for it, but your hand will still clasp mine. I will kiss you, soft and slow, and then, later, I will hide this letter under your pillow, so you can find it tomorrow night and tease me some more._

_But for now, I am content to stay like this. Your head on my shoulder, your fingers laced with mine, and a comfortable silence around us. This is more than I ever hoped for._

_May the rest of our eternity be just like this moment._

_Yours, Ben._ _  
__March 2021._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> as usual, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/akosmia) and [tumblr](http://kylorensx.tumblr.com) ❤


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